Reincarnated as the Vampire Princess' Familiar
Chapter 44 - 43 - The shadow descends upon the battlefield

Chapter 44: 43 - The shadow descends upon the battlefield

I knew it... Deep down, I knew Ayra was still alive! She’s incredible... She managed to endure Clotilde’s grueling training and master the Shadowshaperform in just a week—a desperate feat, so much so that everyone had already given her up for dead. Sasha, Levreshka, and all the other vampires were so certain of it that even I started to doubt I would ever see her again. And yet... here she is, standing before me in all her majesty and pride—beautiful and powerful, like an unattainable goddess.

It’s... strange, this feeling inside me. A happiness unlike anything I’ve ever known surges through every fiber of my being. My battered heart—barely strong enough to pump blood through my tormented body—pounds wildly, almost wagging like an eager puppy greeting its owner at the door. But it’s not just happiness. It’s something deeper... an inexplicable, exhilarating sense of pride that sends shivers down my spine and makes me tremble.

At the sight of Ayra—shadows swirling around her like a raging storm, merging seamlessly with her clothes and hair—the imposing silver beast instinctively takes a step back, letting out a low, wary growl. Behind it, the six black-furred lycans, now recovered from the painful blows they suffered, hesitate before retreating as well—like frightened pups seeking shelter behind their mother.

The mere presence of Ayra—the oppressive, terrifying aura that surrounds her—is enough to make them shrink back, their tails tucked between their legs.

Ayra then shifts her gaze toward me and Ginevra—her pupils no longer red, but blacker than the abyss and as cold as the darkest winter night.

My head rests on Ginevra’s thighs like a pillow, her hand clasped in mine—holding me up, as she says, to promote circulation, while doing everything she can to keep me awake and, above all, alive. The most serious wound has been crudely staunched with makeshift bandages, and, following Ginevra’s advice, I am attempting to channel my Vis energy into the most critical area—trying to form a sort of second skin to contain the hemorrhage as best as possible. However, with the little energy I have left and the searing pain clouding my concentration, my ’second skin’ is far less effective than I had hoped. Still, at least it has kept my condition from deteriorating any further.

«See to it that he does not die, and you will be handsomely rewarded,» Ayra commands Ginevra.

«Y-Yes, Princess Valakys,» she stammers, her voice trembling—uncertain, more terrified than I have ever seen her before, not even when the Lycan’s claws were inches away from ending her life.

Ayra then turns to me, her gaze darkening, growing even sharper—almost menacing. «Dying is the greatest insult a familiar can offer their master. You’d better not abandon me now. Otherwise, I swear on the spirit of my glorious ancestor—Lucypher Valakys—that I will drag you back from the Realm of the Dead by the hair and make you regret ever dying.»

Of course, whenever she assumes the Shadowshaperform, she becomes a completely different person... I wish I could tell her not to worry, to reassure her just as she did for me that night by the lake. But my critical condition makes it impossible to say anything beyond a few strangled, unintelligible sounds. Still, I think my tears—overflowing with joy at seeing her again, streaming down my face, and dripping onto Ginevra’s thighs—express everything I cannot put into words.

«I didn’t think I had such a whiny familiar. You cried the last time we saw each other, and now, after a week, I find you still crying. It seems my return must have truly caught you off guard—it’s almost as if you weren’t expecting it,» Ayra mutters, her tone laced with irritation. She shrugs, momentarily setting aside the cold demeanor that overtakes her whenever she awakens the power of the Innatus Umbral. «Once again—for the third time—you’ve shown a complete lack of faith in your mistress. Once I’m done dealing with these beasts, I’ll make sure to properly punish you as well.»

There it is... she’s back to being the same old Ayra.

Then, a long, ferocious howl erupts from the silver-furred lycan’s jaws, reverberating across the battlefield—it sounds more like a summons than a threat. And indeed, at that signal, countless creatures, who just moments ago were locked in battle against the last remaining survivors of the Scarlet Army—warriors pushed to their limits but now bolstered in spirit by Ayra’s fearsome arrival in her devastating Shadowshaper form—suddenly abandon their opponents, instinctively rallying around the silver lycan that issued the call.

Not a single soldier tries to stop or chase them—perhaps because their remaining strength is too depleted, or perhaps because they know that those beasts, answering that call for aid, are marching toward their own demise.

A pack—no, a true horde—of those ferocious, terrifying werewolves swiftly assembles around Ayra, completely encircling her. And yet—she does not show the slightest trace of fear or hesitation.

In her hand, a sword as black as the abyss materializes, gripped tightly in her fist—the same weapon she summoned during the battle against Vespera—its form emerging from the swirling shadows that rage ever more fiercely around her. «You will pay for hurting my precious familiar!» Ayra thunders, her gaze a harbinger of death itself.

«G-Ginevra...» I murmur, my voice weak, barely above a whisper.

«Lyon, don’t force yourself to speak,» she scolds me—perhaps still shaken by Ayra’s words, or more likely, by the tone in which they were spoken.

«J-Just before... all of this happened... you asked me what kind of relationship I had with Ayra...» I manage a faint smile, my gaze never straying from my mistress. «I think, from her words, you’ve already figured it out yourself...»

I feel Ginevra’s soft, light hand rest on my head, her fingers gently threading through my hair. «You’re truly a lucky guy...» she murmurs, her gaze fixed on Ayra—filled with both fear and admiration.

The pack—led by at least twenty of those imposing silver-furred lycans—lunges at her, attacking from every angle with a terrifying battle cry. Their growls are so fierce, so deafening, that they make the very earth tremble.

Ayra drives her sword into the ground, and from the point of impact, a disk of shadow spreads like an oil spill, expanding at an almost instantaneous speed. In mere moments, it engulfs the entire pack—at least a thousand of those terrifying beasts. But this darkness does not merely cover the ground like a black veil; from their paws, it begins to slither up their bodies like the coiling embrace of a serpent. Both the black-furred lycans and the towering silver ones are ensnared, their movements completely paralyzed, their bodies frozen in place as if turned to stone. Helpless, they can do nothing but whimper and howl—fear, despair, and agony bleeding into the air, as though those dark coils were crushing their bones with merciless force.

No matter how desperately they struggle—whether thrashing their limbs or attempting to unleash the golden energy that cloaks their bodies—every effort is utterly in vain. The dark disk beneath them has robbed them of all mobility, leaving them completely defenseless. Now, nothing stands in the way of Ayra delivering the finishing blow.

From beneath her feet, solid shadow tendrils rise menacingly, sharp and poised to strike at their helpless prey. Dozens—no, hundreds—of those dark appendages erupt at lightning speed in every direction, impaling the werewolves one after another with effortless precision. Even the colossal silver-furred ones—who, to my eyes, seemed nearly invincible, having withstood the relentless offensives of the Scarlet Army—are pierced by Ayra’s magic with the same ease as a red-hot blade slicing through butter.

Fountains of dark brown blood gush from the pierced bodies of the beasts, drenching the battlefield in that macabre hue—even our own bodies, now soaked from head to toe in the thick, foul-smelling fluid. Their anguished whimpers weave a chilling symphony through the air. Entrails spill gruesomely from the gaping wounds in their bellies, while the golden aura that once enveloped them flickers and fades, dissolving into the abyss of the night.

At last, the circular veil of shadow covering the ground begins to withdraw, as if being reabsorbed into Ayra’s black sword. One after another, the lifeless carcasses of the beasts collapse to the ground, piling into a grotesque carpet of fur, flesh, and blood.

From the moment Ayra plunged her sword into the ground to the instant the last lycan exhaled its final breath, barely five seconds could have passed. My mistress’s power is truly unparalleled—she is far stronger than when she fought Vespera during the ambush at Noxscura and, more importantly, she now wields exceptional control over her abilities. Back then, she nearly killed me and Kajetan due to her inability to master that overwhelmingly powerful yet perilous form. But now, not a single one of us familiars has even been grazed by her lethal attacks.

Ayra’s overwhelming display of power further bolsters the morale of the Scarlet Army’s soldiers. With renewed determination, they press forward, driving back what little remains of the multiracial army.

Only the centaurs—evidently the most intelligent among them—realize the inevitability of their defeat and retreat from the battlefield before it’s too late. Meanwhile, the orcs and the few surviving lycans who escaped Ayra’s massacre fall one after another, like autumn leaves caught in a storm, under the renewed onslaught of the vampire soldiers.

Now, all that remains of the vast army that stormed the dormitory is a mere handful of vampires from the CrimsonRequiem—no more than a dozen. Yet, despite their small numbers, they pose an even greater and deadlier threat than the entire horde of monsters that came before them. They stand motionless in the middle of the battlefield, while the few surviving creatures scatter around them, flowing like a stream around unmoving stones as they flee in the opposite direction.

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